


Desk Duty

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Office Sex, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:43:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a media storm brewing.  Malcolm’s all wound up, and he’s not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desk Duty

**Author's Note:**

> The tag says it all, really! I'm having a bit of a tussle with plot in my other fic; a bit of unremitting smut sometimes helps clear away the writer's block!

“And next time your department runs away from you like an out-of-control fucking Labrador, if you expect me to help you come out of it looking slightly fucking brighter than a half-witted fucking HEN, try telling me WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON! Now GET OUT, you’ve got a fuckin’ department to run! CUNT!”

Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs staggered past her desk in a haze of bad breath and flatulence: at least that was what Sam Cassidy hoped it was, according to Jamie there’d been at least one junior minister before now who'd actually shat himself on escaping one of their boss’s more violent tirades. “Car’s at the front, Secretary of State!” she trilled helpfully, holding off from screwing up her pretty face until the man was safely past. 

Her answer was half a hiccough, half a noisy sob. “You’re welcome,” she muttered, ducking her dark head back over the stack of papers strewn across her desk. Not that she’d read a word in the last hour. Not with one minister after another being verbally hacked into tiny, bloody fragments by Tornado Tucker on a fucking rampage.

She squeezed her thighs together as tight as her lips, pursed up against the urge to moan. If nothing else the bad smells left lingering in the Foreign Sec’s wake might cover the unmistakable aroma that had been following her around all morning.

“SAM!”

_Bollocks!_

Snatching up the documents he’d be expecting Sam smoothed down her skirt, sucked in a deep breath and swayed around her desk, the picture of secretarial calm and efficiency as she entered his lair and nudged the door shut with her hip. 

She’d planned to drop the papers on the desk before him and go, preferably without looking at him and definitely without making eye contact. She knew exactly how he’d look after four straight volcanic eruptions.

Grey hair ruffled. A sheen of sweat across top lip and brow. Tie askew. Stormcloud eyes possessed by that intense, near-demonic gleam.

Sex on fucking legs as far as Samantha Cassidy was concerned.

She knew it because she’d been seeing it in her mind’s eye ever since he’d got stuck into the International Development Secretary before the first strong black coffee of the day had been consumed. Losing herself in the melody of that gravelled Scots burr, imagining all the fire and passion being unleashed at the hapless ministers was diverted much more pleasurably her way.

But he wasn’t behind his desk and in spite of herself Sam felt her head snap back, her attention dragged sideways, to the tall, slim figure silhouetted starkly against the office's large window. “Defence are on standby to send Geoff over when you’re ready,” she volunteered, just a degree to bright too cover the awkwardness he’d almost certainly detect. “Are you, er, ready for another coffee then?”

“No.”

The uncharacteristic brusqueness – uncharacteristic with her at least - stopped her feeble escape attempt dead in its tracks. Open-mouthed, Sam stared at her employer, captivated by the small, reluctant smile that played at the corners of his mouth.

“Been enjoying yourself, have ye?”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, you will be.” Rabbit in headlights came to mind while he sauntered toward her, snapping the papers from her hands and dropping them without a glance onto the usual stack of newspapers on a convenient chair. “Squelchin’ in here with your eyes all wide and your nipples sticking up through your shirt! You’ve been getting off on it again, haven’t ye? Pretending all that yellin’ and shouting’s been aimed at you. Christ, I bet you’re so fuckin’ wet poor old Nessie could find herself a home inside your knickers, yeah?”

“Fuck you, Tucker!” she hissed. His slow smile widened.

“Don’t you mean _“fuck me please, Malcolm”_?” he purred, shooting out a hand to grasp her firmly by the wrist. “It must smell like a fucking fishmonger's stall by your desk, lassie. You get like this every time I have tae bollock some poor tosser, don’t ye?”

His accent. Always broader when his passions were stirred, be they political or personal, and never more so than when they were fired by a combination of the two. Sam wet her lips. Nodded.

Strong hands curled around her hips, guiding her insistently around his large, overloaded desk. “Bend,” he instructed, pressing into her from behind just hard enough for her to feel the effect her arousal was having on him. Obediently she leaned forward, arms outstretched to grasp the far side of the work surface, her face pressing into his notepad. “Guid girl.”

She could hear his footsteps; could track his movement as he strolled around the desk, admiring her from all angles. Her neck muscles clenched against the urge to twist, her breath rising hot and damp off his notes to bring a damp glow to her flattened face. “Fuck me sideways, what a _fucking_ sight.”

“Glad you approve.” 

The insolence got her a sharp slap across the arse that fired arrows of pleasure in all directions. Closing in behind her Malcolm slipped his hands beneath the hem of her straight skirt, forcing the material up to bunch around her waist. He bestowed another whipcrack smack before dispensing with her pretty lace knickers.

Sam was frankly relived to feel them ungluing from her damp flesh, although the prickling sensation of cool air against her lower lips, a sharp contrast with the heat her upper ones were huffing over her face, caused another small throb and an accompanying moan.

She expected a spanking for it. What she got was a long, slow lick.

“Malcolm!”

“Ssshhh, love.” He ended the caress in classic Tucker fashion with a small, sharp bite to her succulent arse, the sting swiped away with another flick of that lethally talented tongue. Large, callused hands kneaded her buttocks, his mouth working its way hotly up her spine. Wet patches of silk blouse stuck to the skin as he made his way upward, shifting closer, grinding his growing arousal between her parted thighs. Her grip on the edge of his desk tightened. Lifting her spinning head to peer back was no longer an option. She wasn’t in control of her own muscles any more.

He’d just reached the critical point at the hairline when it happened. His mobile rang.

“Fuck!”

He jerked back as if he’d been struck and as cold air replaced his body heat Sam could only whimper her frustration, physically incapable of peeling herself off the furniture. “Geoffrey, what the fuck are your guys trying to do, hand JB’s fucking Blackshirts the next two elections on a fancy fuckin’ plate?”

The industrious quack of a defensive editor had a unique tone, and Sam had famously sharp ears. “Oh, don’t give me that you fuzzy-headed TWAT!” her employer roared, cutting off the unfortunate hack before he could hit his shrill crescendo. “If it’s in the public fucking interest that John’s wee minibreak in the African sun was funded by old Bob Mugabe’s drinkin’ buddy, what about that Middle East tour your mate from the foreign desk did a few years ago sanctioned by Saddam fucking Hussein, eh? Thought you’d kept that nice and secret didn’t ye? No, don’t go telling me it’s not the fucking same! Your smug intellectual pony-shagging readers’ll know his face better than they know the Minister for International fucking Money-Wasting, right?”

Under other circumstances she might have wondered how he did it; how one man, the busiest in Whitehall at that, could know every filthy Fleet Street secret as well as those of an entre Government. At a different time she might have savoured the stream of inventive invective that rolled like mountain thunder around the office.

At other times, Sam considered groggily, when she wasn’t panting into his paperwork with her own bodily fluids seeping uncomfortably down her spread thighs, the rolled Glaswegian r’s and those lush, smoke-infused tones might even – almost – sound quite scary.

To the unfortunate _Guardian_ editor on the other end of the phone, they probably did.

Closing her eyes Sam let herself sink into the sound of that voice until the words faded out and she was left with the erotic thrum of sound against her skin. She’d often thought he could talk her to one hell of a climax; maybe she was about to prove it.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the words began to resonate again, her torso being pushed firmly into the desk by the weight of his chest pressing down from behind. His breath ruffled her ponytail and he leaned forward, bringing his mouth right up against her ear. “Yeah, yeah, you can’t be seen to be fucking biased, you tin-pot schoolboy socialist! Pity your team won’t be travelling with the PM to Afghanistan next month now though. Wouldn’t want to waste taxpayers’ money sending another alcoholic wanker out to the sun, right?”

Sam rubbed her sweaty face against the top page of his notes, heedless of the black ink smudging weird squiggles into her skin. From far, far away she heard a faint, metallic hiss.

Something warm and velvety butted against her arse crack. Sam whimpered, recognition hitting her womb long before it could work into her brain. 

Hazy as it was, the high-pitched squeal of the trapped hack seeped into her ear. Malcolm ground roughly against her while he cut the man short, his hips moving in perfect time with each viciously enunciated syllable.

Then a long finger slipped between her folds. Sam took a chunk of out of his paperwork with her teeth but the smallest mew still got through.

“Yeah, well it’s public money isn’t it?” He took a nip at her earlobe by way of punishment, adding a second finger to the one already fluttering within her. Sam pushed back against him. Hard.

The thin frame bent over hers rippled, the sensation flowing straight through her into the furniture. “More,” she mouthed.

As if he heard her Malcolm replaced the fingers with something considerably more substantial. Sam could no longer be sure if it was her flesh that was melting or the desk beneath. Everything felt loose. Liquid.

Everything but his cock, white-hot and hard as granite, plunging in and out of her on every other word. Mashing her face into the woodwork Sam bumped and squirmed, pleasure searing where they joined. His insults, his thrusts, merged into one. Molten, she flowed around them, her muscles rippling, maximising the contact around him. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, biting down into his bottom lip.

Fighting off the inevitable.

It happened to her first, her inner walls convulsing while she exploded beneath him, her head threshing wildly as she was caught in ecstacy’s grip. “’s a deal, then?” he grated, willing himself to focus on the irritating squeak in his ear, not the luscious, luxuriant feel of his lover coming apart around him. “Good. Bye.”

He just had time to disconnect before the world caved in.

Sam clenched herself wearily around him, her sated body responding enough to eke everything she could from his climax while he dropped his head against her neck and howled his relief at the bliss that surged in a hot tide, sweeping away even this morning’s monumental load of stress and anger. The edge of the desk bit hard into her belly. His weight, slight as it was, slumped on her back. Yet she felt no discomfort.

Beside the ragged sound of their breathing the office was silent. Somebody, she decided groggily, was going to notice that. Especially today.

“Malc?”

“Yeah?”

“Shouldn’t we move?”

“Probably.” Cushioned by her ripe flesh he was oblivious to the meaning of discomfort, and for the first time since breakfast his mind was empty and at peace. Malcolm shifted slightly, letting his softened length slip free. “Smug fucking hoity-toity _Guardian_ gobshites! Anyone’d think they want JB’s mob in power, just so they can bleat on about how they fucking _told us so_. You OK?”

“Never better.” Her back might be aching; her stomach might bear the imprint of his desk’s beaded edge for the rest of the day, and Sam didn’t want to think what her face, red and black, splodged with heat and ink, must look like. But for the first time all morning, she felt at peace. “You’re fucking good at that, you know.”

He winked. “Glad you think so, lass, now wash your face and get Defence to send Geoff over, OK?” he said, perfectly conversational, as if shagging over the desk during a crisis was a normal occurrence. Sam found herself devoutly wishing it was.

There again considering the Party had averaged one catastrophe of nuclear proportions a week since Tom took the top job the additional level of sexual activity would, she conceded, probably be the death of them both.

Scuttling into the ladies’ before anyone could tell her how bedraggled she looked, Sam allowed herself a small, smug chuckle at her reflection. “Yes, but Jesus Christ! What a way to go!”


End file.
